


It's Happened Again

by ibandnerdfangirl



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, It may get dark, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, No baby btw, Post 'His Last Vow', S3 spoilers, Sorry in advanced, Suicide, What happy ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2980739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibandnerdfangirl/pseuds/ibandnerdfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 'His Last Vow.' Sherlock has been "exiled" after the murder of Charles Magnussen. Moriarty has not returned, leaving no reason for Sherlock to return to his life at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Just the Beginning

Alone. That's all he felt, alone. John was back in his plush red arm chair at 221B, arms draped over the edges, feet folded almost lifelessly at its base. And the empty hole in him. That pounding, crushing feeling of Sherlock not being there, ate away at him.

He was gone. Dead. For good. In his mind, he replayed those last precious seconds of him on the rooftop, reaching helplessly down to his other half, standing terrified on the pavement.

Then he was falling. Falling. And nothing to stop him except the pavement.

 _Sherlock!_ Then nothing...

John jerked awake. He face was covered in beads of salty sweat. It took him a minute to regain his surroundings. A duvet covered his legs and his wife, Mary, lying next to him. She lay peacefully, her hands tucked underneath her head. He ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to slow down his pounding heart. 

Sherlock was gone. Not for good; he wasn't dead. Just, gone. After he shot Magnussen, Mycroft Holmes sent him away as punishment. And he was never to return. 

Simply thinking about it made John gasp for air. That same crushing loneliness he felt after the fall had returned; this time scratching at the healed scars from before. 

John had to stop thinking about it, before he gave himself another panic attack. He lay back down in his seemingly empty bed, curling the sheet to his chin. Closing his eyes, John could not find the will to go back to sleep. 

He got up the next morning exhausted with faint circles forming under his eyes. 

Nights like this went on for weeks. Mary picked up on his change in behavior and subtle alterations in his appearance. The circles under John's eyes got darker and darker each night, until it looked like he had a black eye. Wrinkles began forming at the corners of his mouth and forehead. His limp returned worse than ever; he ever hardly got up unless he needed to. 

After days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, months into a _year,_ Mary learned her place in John's life. As many times as he denied it, she knew there was no replacing Sherlock. She began to only look at him like an injured puppy, sympathetic for his "condition." Mary only stayed around because he needed someone who could keep him stable. 

Once he suggested moving back into 221B together, she knew he was too far gone. 

"It's more convenient," he said, "Closer to the city and the Yard." She only replied with a shake of her head. A week later, she filed for divorce, knowing that there was no room for her in John's life.

So John _did_ end up moving back into his old flat. Mrs. Hudson hadn't moved anything since Sherlock had been sent off.

John spent most of his free time sulking in his chair, staring across the living room to Sherlock's black, leather one. Occasionally he would crawl over to his old seat, and curl up in it. It still smelled like him. That unique scent that always clung to him wherever he went.

One night, he fell asleep in the leather chair, his face pressed up against the metal support.

Mrs. Hudson found him that morning.

"Oh dear," she shuffled over to nudge his shoulder. "John? John."

He stirred slightly. "Mmm," he grumbled in response. 

"John, dear, it's not healthy for you to live like this." She glanced nervously at the coffee table, which sported a half empty bottle of whiskey and his cane. 

He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. The corners of his eyes felt dried, and he realized he'd been crying. _Crying?_  It had been exactly one year, two months, and eight days since he had been shipped off, and he was still weeping for Sherlock. He wasn't ready to admit it to himself yet, but he was in love in that man. And it _killed_ him to not be there with him, wherever he was. 

It was after the fall all over again. The same feelings. The same thoughts. The same motions. It was all happening again. 

"I'm sorry Mrs. H." he groaned finally in response. 

"Oh, sweetie." Everyone looked at him like Mary did, now. Those same sympathetic eyes came from everyone. Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Lestrade, even Mycroft empathized with the doctor. Greg quit asking for his help on cases, as he only moped around the office. His job at the hospital was teetering on the precipice as well, as his late mornings became more and more frequent and he constantly snapped at clients, his patience running thin. 

 He sat up, propping his elbows on his knees. His face found its way into his hands, where he sat for a solid ten minutes before he found the strength to move.

"Jesus, Sherlock." John could feel the tears forming again, stinging at the corners of his eyes, "Why...Why do you have to go and...leave me again." Mrs. Hudson glanced over at the broken man from her place in the kitchen. John sniffed deeply before dragging his hands down his face and standing, hobbling over to his cane. He sat down at the kitchen table that was still covered with dusty beakers and microscope.

Mrs. Hudson sighed before taking a daring step, "John, you're depressed," she placed a cup of tea in front of him soothingly, "Now, I know you've probably heard it before, and after he died..." she trailed off before looking John in the eyes, "What I mean to say, is that I know what-"

" _NO!_ " He snapped, bolting up as she sat down, "No, you have...absolutely _no_ idea what I am going through. This!" John waved his hands frantically around the room, "Was not okay the FIRST time! He left me...on the brink of _suicide._ The first time he was gone, I spent years mourning him. Slept for MONTHS in his bedroom. And now..." He takes a step back and licks his lips, tears streaming unknowingly down his cheeks, "He goes and leaves me a _second_ time." John's voice broke as he spoke, "And Mrs. Hudson, I can't _stand_ the way people look at me now... Like I'm some, some _dying_ animal!" He collapsed on the floor, letting his head fall to his hands again.

Mrs. Hudson gasped and shuffled over to where he lay on the floor, placing an arm around his shoulder, "John, dear-"

"Just go..." He whimpered mutely into his hands. There was nothing she could do. Nothing anybody could do at this point. The landlady stood reluctantly, tears running from her eyes, as she knew how far gone John was. "He's never coming back..."


	2. Last Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson only sees one way out. And without HIM there, it wouldn't have mattered either way.

Mrs. Hudson had left over an hour ago, and John still lay helplessly on the floor. He could hear her soft cries through the thin floors and felt kind of bad. Because he was unhappy, didn't mean it was ok for him to make everyone else miserable, especially Mrs. Hudson, who had stuck it out through John's first episode and the majority of the second.

He sniffed deeply and sat up, finally, reaching for his cane. John limped over to his chair and sulked some more. He couldn't live like this; Mrs. Hudson was right. No one should ever live like this, he thought. What had he done to deserve it a _second_ time, let alone the first. John was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Continue to sulk in this empty hole of depression he called living? Or simply... end it all.

It could be so easy. He had a loaded gun in the drawer next to his- Sherlock's -bed. There were anti-depression pills in the bathroom. And he was almost certain Sherlock had some chemicals stored away from his previous experiments. 

It wouldn't be the first time he's considered it either, suicide. On many different occasions, when Sherlock died, John found himself with a gun in his hand and the barrel between his teeth. Why would it be so different now?

John got up and grabbed the yellow notepad from the coffee table and the blue ink pen from his side table. He sat down and began to write out his death letter.

"Family and friends,

     I'm sorry this is how you had to find me. And I'm sorry I couldn't stick it out longer. After Sherlock left the first time, many of you were there to console me, and many still stayed with me through the second round. I cannot go on living without Sherlock in my life, and here, in this letter, is where I'll finally admit to loving that bastard.

     Most of my belongings will be distributed among family, but Mrs. Hudson can choose what she would like first. I left this months rent money, along with the next few months, in an envelope with this letter for Mrs. Hudson.

     Again, I'm sorry It had to turn out this way, but I can't go on to live without Sherlock Holmes. What point is there living for him when he isn't even here.

                    My condolences,

                                   John H. Watson"

He hadn't realized it, but he was crying again, and his hands wiped away at the moistness on his cheeks. John placed the hastily written letter on the table, along with the pen, and got up to gather his money as promised to Mrs. Hudson. Now, finally, the table had one death note, one pen, and an envelope.

The doctor retrieved the gun from the bedside table and placed it on his notepad next to his chair. Upon checking it, he discovered that it was only missing three bullets. One fired when protecting Sherlock from the cabbie, another when they needed to defend the flat during a break-in. And finally, that last fateful bullet, that was lodged in the forehead of Charles Agustus Magnussen after Sherlock had killed him. The one that sent him away for good... John snapped the magazine into place and sat down. He knew Mrs. Hudson would be out shopping for groceries, so he knew he didn't have much time left.

He was wearing his favorite cream jumper, the one he wore when he first ate dinner with Sherlock, a pair of slacks, and a pair of dull, brown loafers. John sat up, confident in his decision to end his own life. In fact, he had never been more certain of anything at all.

In one hand, grasped the handle of his personal weapon, and the other was empty, sitting calmly in his lap.

John Watson raised his right hand, the one holding the gun, to his temple. He could feel the cold ring of the barrel through his hair, and his finger wrapped surely around the trigger.

"God have mercy... I love you Sherlock Holmes..."

His finger tightened around the trigger and sounded a loud _Bang!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry!! So what happens in the next chapter??? Who knows?! Just kidding, I do :D


	3. I'm Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, you're just gonna have to read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr at iBandNerd. You can yell at me there!!!

Darkness. There wasn't really anything for a while, except darkness.

Mrs. Hudson called from the bottom of the stairs, enough to pull John from his seemingly drugged state. He blinked awake, to full consciousness. Could it be? Could all of this really had been a dream? His head began to droop and he picked it up, nodding off a few times before a seemed to regain control of his body.

John took a moment to intake his surroundings. He was sitting in his red chair, his cream jumper hugging his torso, and a notepad and envelope on his table next to him.

 _That's odd,_ he thought, Had _I killed myself?_

He looked around and saw blood splattered on the mantle to his left. John was shaken from his entranced state as he heard Mrs. Hudson calling from downstairs.

"John! Oh, John! Come quick!" Her voice was high and shrill, echoing through the hall as she quickly clambered up the steps. But it wasn't only one set of footsteps John could hear. _Two_.

Mrs. Hudson entered through the doorway into the sitting room, and found John. He watched on as she fell to her knees, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, though no sound was coming out. Tears immediately sprung to her eyes as she sobbed his name, "Jo-ohn? John, please, no..." Her body shuddered, crippled on the floor.

"Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" He leaned out to reach for his crying landlady, "Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine, I'm right h-" He was cut off when another figure entered the room.

This one was tall and had dark curly hair. A blue scarf around his neck, and a long coat clinging to his slender figure. _Sherlock._ John was stunned into silence as he watched the love of his life walk right into 221B as if it were no big deal. His blue eyes widened upon seeing his blogger; he was frozen to his spot.

John tried calling out to him, "Sher-Sherlock, you're...you're here." But the detective continued to stare, slowly making his way to the doctor, as if John hadn't said anything at all. "Sherlock, please, answer me." No response. John began to wonder why Sherlock wasn't answering, "Sherlock?"

The man took another painful step forward, his eyes wet with tears. He squatted down in front of John and rested his hands on the blogger's knees. John couldn't feel the change in pressure on his leg as Sherlock lay his hands down. "Sherlock!" His voice was becoming frantic as he reached out to touch Sherlock's face. No acknowledgement of the gesture was made. John jumped up out of his chair (just fine without his cane), but Sherlock hadn't moved.

He turned and saw his body, slumped over himself in his chair. A messy bullet wound was clear on the sides of his head, and a pool of his own blood was beginning to form in his lap. John choked up upon seeing the gruesome image, as no one should see themselves in this mangled state.

John watched on, helplessly, as Sherlock wrapped his arms across the doctor's limp legs. His head dipped and came to rest on his folded arms. John looked to Mrs. Hudson, who had made her way to the couch, smothering her cries with a pillow. He looked back to Sherlock, whose body was shuddering now, crying in the lap of his dead doctor.

"I'm here now, John. It's ok, I'm here now," He kept repeating those three words, occasionally interjecting with, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Sherlock..." John fell to pieces as he watched the detective break down in front of him. He squatted next to the man and wrapped his arm around him, crying himself. "Sherlock, I-I'm sorry too... If only I'd known..." He wanted so desperately to connect with the man before him. He saw Mrs. Hudson get up and scramble to the phone, calling an ambulance most likely.

"John!" Sherlock lifted his head and clawed at the body, wanting a response, "John, I'm here! Please!" His hands found the fingers of John and grasped them, "Come back... Please, I'm here now, John."

John could feel himself crumbling inside. _He_ wasn't supposed to be here. That wasn't why he killed himself. _He_ was never supposed to come back, that's why.

He could feel Sherlock slipping away, feel himself disappearing, "No!" He tried screaming, yelling, sobbing, trying to get someone's attention, trying to stop himself from leaving. But to no avail.

John watched on in horror as Sherlock lifted the gun gingerly from the floor. He seemed to cradle it in his hand, sniffling grossly as he did so. John screech Sherlock's name, clawed helplessly at him, trying to stop him. His vision became red with anger, and horror, and sorrow, as we watched the crippled detective lift the blogger's gun to his own head.

Darkness was clouding him, John, now. And slowly collapsed on him as he watched Sherlock raise the gun. "Sherlock!"

Then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then... That turned out to be more depressing than I thought. Hm, whelp, I hope you like it anyway! Remember to give kudos, comment, share. I'm always open for criticisms too!

**Author's Note:**

> Super angsty I hope!! I promise it gets better in the next chapter or two, and there will be a lot of feels.


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